


The heavily amended personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

by queenofthenight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthenight/pseuds/queenofthenight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I saw a prompt asking for Sherlock to be posting links to johnlock smut on John's blog. Except... I misread it as writing johnlock smut <i>of</i> John's blog, and thought it would be hilarious, so... yup. Enjoy. Not actually particularly smutty so if you're looking for that this is not the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The heavily amended personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to regret posting this in the morning haha
> 
> Those bits you recognise are recogniseable because I lifted them directly from John's blog. Unsurprising, given the premise of this fic =P

John was confused, at first, when he found the website. Harry was the one that had pointed it out to him, texting him one day and telling him he needed to look at it and refusing to tell him why. It was, as far as he could tell, an identical copy of his blog. Same header, same awkward mugshot, same photos. The only difference was that the 'comments by' section was blank. Frowning, he opened an entry at random.

> So, last night I went to look at the flat. It's pretty decent actually. Sherlock had already moved in so it was a bit of a mess but that's actually a nice change from where I was before.  
> 
> 
> And the madman himself? He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. He's not safe, I know that much. I'm not going to be bored and I doubt we're going to be arguing about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill or what we're going to watch on the telly. And yeah, he is probably most likely definitely mad. But, he knows a couple of nice restaurants so he's not all bad.  
> 
> 
> So yes, we had a quick look at the flat and chatted to the landlady. Then the police came and asked Sherlock to look at a body so we went along to a crime scene, then we chased through the streets of London after a killer and Sherlock solved the serial suicides/murder thing.  
> 
> 
> And then we went to this great Chinese restaurant where my fortune cookie said 'There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before. ' After the night I'd had, I beg to differ.

Perfectly ordinary, as far as John could see. What had Harry been making such a fuss about? Perhaps the website was booby-trapped with one of those weird clown things that suddenly jumps up on the screen or something. He idly clicked onto the next entry.

 

> I've left out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened on the night I moved in with Sherlock Holmes.  
>  When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that's the thing with him. It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.  
> 
> 
> This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn't know. He didn't think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn't care. I still can't quite believe it. In so many ways, he's the cleverest person I've ever met but there are these blank spots that are almost terrifying. At least I've got used to him now. Well, I say that, I suspect I'll never really get used to him. It's just, on that first night, I literally had no idea of what was to come. I mean, how could I?  
> 
> 
> I was looking at the flat, surprised at the state it was already in, when Sherlock came up behind me and told me where my bedroom would be. He asked me to join him and I went along, intrigued. Going up the stairs, he explained how he'd deduced everything about me the previous day - how he'd picked up on every word I said, every action, tiny little things about my phone. It was extraordinary. I'd try to explain it here but I don't think I'd be able to do him justice. Go to his site, The Science of Deduction and see for yourself how his mind works.  
> 
> 
> I was still surprised that, even being the genius he clearly is, he’d be interested in somebody like me, even as a flatmate. I watched him from beneath lowered eyelashes, wondering what he would do next. He simply pushed the door open and swept in, expecting me to follow him. I did.  
> 
> 
> We arrived in the room where, to my surprise, he stepped smoothly behind me and pushed the door shut with a click. I must have shown my surprise, because he smiled and said “it wouldn’t do to disturb Mrs Hudson”. Again, Sherlock just looked at me and I knew that he knew everything about me, the thoughts I was thinking about the immaculate and dashing way he was dressed and the splatters of mud on my own clothing. What was there and, more importantly, what was missing. My pants. And it was that which excited him. The missing red pants.  
> 
> 
> He left me there, stunned, and ran outside to search for them. I conferred with the voice in my head, the one that always justifies the spectacularly bad decisions that I make, about what had just happened, and I think he managed to sum Sherlock up. He said 'he gets off on it.' And he does. He didn't care about my dumpy clothes, or the fact that he’d just left me there, waiting for him. I suspect if he came back and found me and our landlady lying here, he'd just see it as an intellectual exercise. 'Fantastic' he'd exclaim, rubbing his hands together. The voice in my head called him a psychopath. That seems harsh and it was hardly a professional diagnosis but I look back at what I wrote about him when I first met him. I called him the madman.  
> 
> 
> So I went over to the bed and it had barely been seconds before Sherlock sent me a text message. He'd found my suitcase and discovered the red pants in the false bottom with my gun. It was easy, he yelled, rushing back up the stairs and through the door, because it was his flat and if he couldn’t find somebody else’s suitcase in his own flat then that was a poor day for England. “I didn’t realise you’d like this kind of thing,” I recall myself saying. It honestly hadn't even crossed my mind and when I said this, he told me I was an idiot. He didn't mean to be offensive, he just said what he thought. I've been called worse things but his bluntness was still a bit of a surprise. He just didn't care about being polite or anything like that. I was starting to blush, and he pushed me back down against the bed and kissed me gently on the lips. He stared deeply into my eyes, and part of me wants to say that it was due to attraction and part of me thinks he was measuring the dilation of my pupils to gauge my own interest.
> 
> “This is fine,” he said, and it was.  
> 
> 
> After that, we kissed slowly. He waited to see how I’d react to him kissing me gently before kissing me harder, bruising my lips. Across the room, a bizarre doll watched us. I tried to ignore it, but Sherlock insisted on removing it. Luckily he seemed to have an intimate knowledge of what exactly would get my attention immediately back on him. Of course, as I realised afterwards, he'd probably memorised my entire history with a single look. He ran his hand down beside us, managing to keep himself above me, imposing - only to discover that the pants had been left downstairs. He'd only discovered them in the bag, then left them there in his haste to get back to me. It was the most ridiculous night of my life - I mean, we just ran straight downstairs to get them, completely forgetting my cane. People don't do that, not really. But we did.  
> 
> 
> And, of course, by doing this, Sherlock proved my limp was psychosomatic. Did I mention he's clever?  
> 
> 
> So we returned downstairs to discover that Mrs Hudson was there, examining the pants. It was actually pretty funny seeing how offended Sherlock was by this. I genuinely think he believes himself to be above everybody else. And he couldn't stand the fact that Mrs Hudson had got one over him. She described Sherlock as a child and, in many ways, that's what he is. I said that he doesn't care about what others think and that he's arrogant because of this but it's not really that. It's not that he doesn't care, it's that he genuinely doesn't understand that it's normal to care. It's normal to worry about what other people think. Like a child, he just doesn't understand the rules of society - which, of course, is probably why he's so good at working the rest of us out. He definitely understands how to seduce someone, though.  
> 
> 
> So he grabbed the pants and stalked into his own bedroom in a huff. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to follow him or not, but he called out to me to “come on, John!” and I couldn’t help but go. Well, I’m sure Mrs Hudson knew what she was getting into when she rented the flat out to him in the first place.  
> 
> 
> And he was on the bed. He was on the bed - in my pants! I’d never thought that might be something I was interested in, but at that moment I knew I’d chase him halfway across London for the sight. That was how Sherlock Holmes ensnared me - with my own red pants. Of course, Sherlock, being completely and utterly mad, climbed under the sheets complaining of cold and invited me to join him. Again, he wasn't interested in the 'rules'. He wasn't interested in his own role all this. I don't think he was particularly interested in his own needs at all and it didn't even cross his mind to let me know what I could do to excite him. All Sherlock Holmes was interested in was discovering me. He wanted to be alone with me to find out what made me tick, to pull me apart and break me and put me back together with all the pieces perfectly in place. That was more important than anything else.  
> 
> 
> He drove me mad so we could both educate each other on - well, on how I worked, I guess. It's not something I'll ever really understand and, to be honest, I'm not sure I ever want to understand it. To be that masterful. To be that above the rest of us. To be that incredibly sexy. It's pretty terrifying.  
> 
> 
> Afterwards, Sherlock told me what happened before I came along. He was dying of boredom. Nobody was clever or interesting enough for him. I don’t understand his brain, not really, but from the way he’s eyeing me right now I don’t think he’s at all capable of doing nothing. He must have gone through hell. But Sherlock, mad old Sherlock, he knew what he wanted and he just took it. When I came along and all he wanted to do was understand me, to take me apart and see what made me tick, he knew that was something he had to have. He says he hasn’t managed it yet. I can only hope he doesn’t decide I’m dull anytime soon.  
> 
> 
> Being intimate with Sherlock is something you never really get used to. That someone could have such power over someone else - but I'm glad I did it, because I undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. And, frankly, after everything that man did to me in that bed, I wasn’t going to say no.  
> 
> 
> And after all that? Well, me and my flatmate went for a Chinese. Like I say, he really does know some great restaurants.  
> 
> 
> And since that night? It hasn't stopped. Oh, there's so much more I've got to tell you. 

John _stared_.

He clicked to the next entry, and the next, and the next, all of which gradually became more and more explicit. He understood why Harry had been so reluctant to explain to him over the phone. _Somebody_ had painstakingly sorted through all his blog entries and made them into porn of him and Sherlock.

Speaking of.

“Sherlock,” he called, “I’ve got a mystery for you.”

Sherlock popped his head out of the kitchen. “Oh?” he said. “I do hope it’s something interesting. We’re almost out of chicken kidneys and I haven’t anything left to experiment on after that.”

“Well we can’t have that, can we,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Well, I don’t know if you’ll find it particularly interesting, but you’re far better at computers than I am, so I thought maybe you might have a go-”

“Spit it _out_ , John,” Sherlock said impatiently.

“Somebody’s writing porn about us,” John said. “Adapting my blog into porn of us, actually.”

“Oh, is that all? Well, you’d better go off to the shops and pick up some things for me while I have a look. There’s a list under the skull.”

He leant over John and picked up his laptop, walking off with it before John could protest. Well, he did ask for his help, he supposed. He sighed, resigned, and fetched the list before heading out.

He was halfway down the street before John recalled that he did, in fact, own a pair of red pants, which _had_ mysteriously gone missing. He’d only bought them because they were one of the few pairs left in the shop, and he’d just wanted to go home and sleep forever, not go to another store and be stared at as he bought underwear. But they’d been missing since he moved in with Sherlock, and he’d just assumed he left them behind, but- he was no genius sleuth, but John thought he saw where this was heading. He headed straight back to their flat.  


Sherlock was not in the sitting room. John went to Sherlock’s bedroom and opened the door.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock purred, lying on the bed, naked but for John’s stolen red pants. “I just knew you’d figure it out.”

Then he beckoned to him and John found himself shutting the door behind him and walking closer to the bed.

“We wouldn’t want to interrupt Mrs Hudson, after all,” John said, and smirked.


End file.
